It’s been rumored that I keep a bottle of Jack in the supply room. Were that to be true, I would only use it preserve another severed digit until I could get to the hospital.
I have been known to give any kid I catch with a sack of taters a break. I simply take take away their taters (and their evil rolling papers) and warn them that I will tell their parents next time. I always flush the confisticated taters down the toilet. And if you don’t believe me, well, prove it.
I drive a 1946 Cadillac I restored. Only took me 6 months and 3 bottles of acetylene to weld the pieces together. As soon as I get my Christmas bonus, I’m going to get my buddy Bob to paint it, although that job I did with a case of primer from Walmart looks damn near professional.
I also built my own house. Couple of more years and I’ll actually have carpet over the subflooring.
I believe that a woman’s place is where I say it is. I believe a wife should live solely to wait on her husband hand and foot. I am single, but looking. I’m just as amazed as you. With all I got going for me, I still haven’t found that perfect someone yet.
Hey, wanna form a clique? We can sit in the well where the auditorium stairs begin their decent off the main lobby on off-periods and trade vintage jackets. Falcon is in our clique, too, because she is my SDMB best friend. Hell, the artsy clique forms here.
Now where the hell is That guy? You know the one, he goes to every school, he blows up the toilets with cherry bombs and jumps out of second story windows for kicks. He is the terror of the teacher’s lounge, anti-establishment at it’s finest. Where is he?
Hi. I’m Rachelle. I’m the girl that gets along with everybody and knows everybody’s name but I don’t belong to a particular clique. I’ve been known to get caught passing notes during class and have made up lots of bogus reasons to leave class just so I can go cruise the halls and talk to people. I’m also the girl that can out drink the guys at the party!! A little wild, uninhibited, willing to do almost anything on a dare!
I get A’s and B’s but don’t study and I hate gym class! I’d rather go in the weight room and watch the guys workout! I was voted Biggest Flirt even though I never dated any of the guys from my high school. On the last day of school we stole the senior bench and the pop machines… I don’t know why though. Seemed like a good idea at the time!
I am Lord Vega, the guy you can hear comming and going, in a cloud of tire smoke.
I drive a '69 Road Runner, with a 440 Magnum CID motor, dual Holley 650 double pumpers, 4-11 gears, Munsey M-4 Rockcrusher trans, Mickey Thompson wide oval 50’s on the back and 60’s on the front, tuned headers and glass packs on the exhaust. I’m also always broke because I’m buying car parts or gas.
If this is a fantasy HS, then take out the broke part. But back in the '70’s when I was in HS…
V.
I am the dude everyone’s kinda like “what’s with him?” about. I hang with Erika on occasion, and I manage not to be a jock despite my track stardom. I’m in the computer lab at least two hours a day, to the point where I know the PC delivery people on a first-name basis. When I’m not in the lab you can usually find me either in a choir or madrigal group of some sort or at the track. I always seem somewhat inapproachable due to my self-enclosed nature, though those who know me know how starved for attention and affection I am.
I’m proud to be a geek. I see nothing wrong with being labeled “weird,” as I’ve believed for a long time that not only does the term “normal” not exist in practical ways, I don’t want to be anywhere near it. I cringe at the word “freak.” I don’t use a slide rule, don’t wear glasses or a pocket protector, and don’t play much chess or D&D. I do, however, program PCs and calculators for fun, and have been known to type papers for people for free simply because I love typing. No, that doesn’t mean I’ll write your paper, as some unfortunate athletic-types have discovered.
I’m a fairly neotenous person, not well-liked by most of the student body if only for the fact that I’m not a straight-forward individual. The only way people can “peg” me as any one thing or another is to say “he’s weird.” I hide behind baggy, semi-preppy clothing and along with my body hides my actual aggresive, powerful nature, which someday will find its unfortunate target. I’m a target for bullies inasmuch as I’m not afraid to be un-normal, something half the school can’t fathom and something the school’s guidance counselors can’t penetrate. I may be watching you from behind every locker or I may be totally indifferent to you so long as you stay out of my way. In any case, your best bet is not to piss me off.
Swiddles, I know you’re not much for this kind of thing but I’ve got this AWESOME idea for a Homecoming float. It might get us suspended…IF we get caught. We get this big ass mesh form of a chipmunk…
I’m Hope. Math is my favorite class and I’m the English teacher’s class pet because of my love for reading and writing, and my constant volunteering to read to the class. (Because, of course, no one else ever wants to.) When I’m not in class you can usually find me in the Peer Helpers room.
I’m Demo. If I don’t talk to you in class, it’s not because I don’t like you. OK, it is because I don’t like you, but wouldn’t you feel better about yourself if you thought I was just shy? If I’m not in class, maybe I went to have a smoke, or get some coffee and donuts across the street. Or maybe I’m toking up in the bathroom. Really, it’s none of your business, so piss off. Sorry, I don’t do homework. I may come and take your test if I’m of a mind to that day. I’ll read what I feel like reading, and if I’m tested on something I haven’t read, I’ll just bullshit my way through it and still get an A. If I bothered to get a yearbook, my teachers would’ve written, “He could have done so much.” You’d rather not have anything to do with me though, and can’t wait until this year is over so you can get me out of your class. Whatever you do, just don’t mess with me. How the hell would I know how your tires got slashed? Maybe it’s just karma coming back at you for pushing me in the quad with all your football player friends surrounding you. Just be glad it was your tires and not you.
It’s not like I don’t have friends. Everyone at the used record store knows me well. Mr. Davis, the saturday school advisor thinks I’m “misunderstood” but secretly wishes he could be like me. That’s probably why he’s stopped making me write the mandatory 1000 word essays, explaining why you are there in the first place. Maybe he just got tired of seeing “Fuck You” written out 500 times. I’ve had enough of this crap for the day. I’m outta here…
FreakFreely may not know it, but he’s my idol and I call him my best friend despite the fact that, to ease my pain, I say I don’t know him well enough for him to call me his best friend. I see that quality in him that enjoys being different and imagine myself with the confidence to do that. Secretly I yearn to be accepted as the non-conformist I pretend to be, wanting some of the attention the athletes get without the road to that attention. I’m just waiting for someone to try and care enough to get me out of my shell.
Oh, and I’m a debate club and “It’s academic” groupie . . . I’m a member of both, but not good enough to be considered hard-core. I’m the guy who can’t be pinned to any political organization . . . the guy who loves to look at what’s wrong with life and at the same time see what’s right. Sometimes . . . most of the time . . . I confuse myself with what I ought to think and what I actually think, and frequently go the third route.
I have massive crushes on half the girls in the school and wonder what they see in those who would drop them in a second were they to gain 20 lbs. I never admit to those crushes but with my closest friends, such as they are. What I cannot do IRL I do on paper, writing long, complicated stories of Our Hero the Weirdo being accepted as who he is rather than who he might be or isn’t. And getting the girl. The one everyone else thinks is plain or boring or not worth their time, but who I/OHTW lusts after every day as he waits in the computer lab for her to check her email every afternoon at 4:12. I have 50 kilobytes of drafts of loveletters to her, letters I would only dream of sending, but never press the “send” button for fear of rejection and the blanket of obscurity I keep over myself being lifted off with one gentle breath of “the girl.”
